


it hurts to become

by OnyxSphinx



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Mild Hurt/Comfort, Trans Hermann Gottlieb, Trans Newton Geiszler, in this house we dislike lars gottlieb with a burning passion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-03-01 05:27:35
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,246
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23189947
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OnyxSphinx/pseuds/OnyxSphinx
Summary: there's a lot in a name
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 3
Kudos: 35





	it hurts to become

It starts like this; he is fifteen and the frames of his glasses hang heavy on the bridge of his nose as he stands before the chalkboard. The teacher stands over him; the weight of her shadow on him almost unbearable. The skirt is too short and the nylons itch; and the woman introduces him.

“Class,” she says, “I want you to welcome Hermione Gottlieb.”

It’s ridiculous; he’s fifteen, not five; this is an all-female boarding-school, not public education; there’s no need to  _ introduce _ him; not like this, especially, where he’s laid bare before his peers; their prying gazes weighing near a ton as they scrutinise him; his haircut, his cane, his leg, his— _ everything _ .

It starts like this; he is twenty and the name on his doctorate is not his; not in any true way; but he’s a coward in more ways than one, and always will be.

It starts like this: he is twenty-three and he’s writing a letter to one Doctor Newton Geiszler with a return address addressed to a name that doesn’t exist but is more his than any other has ever been.

He doesn’t expect it; doesn’t expect the  _ honesty _ from Newton; the casual mentions of his life; of,  _ yeah, my mom had shit choice in names _ and  _ I got it fixed as soon as I hit eighteen _ and  _ I don’t regret a single moment of it _ and thinks; oh; he’s found a kindred soul.

He doesn’t talk about his own, though; wishes he were brave enough to, in proper, but it feels like a  _ betrayal _ somehow; a betrayal of a father who doesn’t love him and maybe never has and whom he wishes he could erase any memory of but  _ can’t _ and yet still strives for the approval of; and so he keeps wearing itchy nylons and skirts and tries to not hate himself when he catches the reflection in the mirror.

Of course it doesn’t  _ stay _ like that; how could it? Life is prone to change.

So; it starts like this; they meet in Berlin.

Newton is short; shorter than him by a full four inches, in fact; but only two in public, wearing his clunky black boots, and there’s no stubble on his face and may never be, but the black leather jacket and roguish smile complete the look.

Hermann feels inadequate in comparison; hiding behind this mask as he is; and Newton sees it, too; confusion blossoming across his face—because, well, he had thought Hermann a man. It’s the name, Hermann knows, probably; he hasn’t lied, he’d never do that, God, no, but he’d thought—what, that Newton would  _ respect _ him more?

(No; he had thought that he could be true to himself; but that, it seems, is never going to happen.)

And then it’s 2020 and they’ve been stationed in the same shatterdome and over the line dividing their lab, late at night, after hours of frantic working, they call a truce; and Newton sits by his side and asks, quietly, “Why’d you never—?” and the question is left open-ended but they both know what he’s talking about.

Hermann lets out a shaking breath; considers not answering, and then weighs it against the opportunity to try and put words to this tangle of a life he’s been living. 

“I’m...afraid,” he admits; finally; the word falling ragged and limp before him like some sort of dead offering; a plea, an explanation, a, God, a  _ life _ . 

“Still?” Newton asks, softly; and his hand reaches out to settle on Hermann’s shoulder. “You know your dad can’t do shit, now, right?”

Hermann lets out a dry laugh—no, a sob, really. “No,” he says, “no, he can’t, but he can pull funding from the Jaeger Program. If he—God—” he stops.

Newton lets him; breathes, with him; in, out; in, out; two, three, four, five. “Would he?” he asks.

“Yes,” Hermann says; with a surety he hasn’t known in anything in these last seven years. “I—Karla, she was lucky to have a stable job and a wife and, and—but me? God, if he finds out I’m—” and, God, what  _ is _ he; in this murky space between; not a  _ man _ , no, doesn’t  _ want _ to be—but not a woman, either; doesn’t fit, not now, not, maybe, ever;  _ dyke _ fits decently, but he hates to hear it from mouths of those who usually say it, aimed with vitriol; and so, in the end, he settles with, “like  _ this _ ,” and leaves it hanging there.

There’s a silence; and then Newton says: “God. That’s fucked, Herms, I’m sorry,” and pulls him into an embrace, and Hermann lets him, just this once; doesn’t scold him for it, or  _ that _ , like he would otherwise; just settles into the comfort, savouring it as long as he can.

And then:

And then;

And then—

—they’ve won.

And the first thing he does is  _ sleep _ , God, because he  _ needs _ it, and he falls into it curled in Newton’s arms, and he would consider it something of a miracle he’s even  _ here _ in this position, head pillowed onto Newton’s shoulder, his hands carding through Hermann’s hair, but now?

Not now.

Not anymore.

He wakes the next morning with Newton awake already; he’s dressed and sitting in the single chair in the room, looking at some papers— _ letters _ , Hermann realises, with a start;  _ his _ . “Hermann,” Newton says.

Hermann huffs. “You needn’t,” he says; tiredly. “Just—” and he stops there; because he’s realising now that Newton never  _ has _ ; he’s called him  _ Herms _ and _ Hermy _ and a thousand other variations but never, never,  _ never _ Hermione.

Newton frowns at him; must know his thoughts; of  _ course _ ; the Drift. “No,” he says, “I never did. I figured that you didn’t...didn’t want that. And I like  _ your _ name better, anyway.”

“It’s not my name,” Hermann mutters; and the words are soft, but Newton rises; sets the letters down and comes over to place a hand on Hermann’s arm. He’s only wearing a thin shirt, worn old by age, and beneath it lies what Hermann knows to be evidence of a medical appointment confessed to him, years ago, in letters; and Hermann remembers, with biting clarity, something like jealousy at the knowledge.

He draws in a shuddering breath; closes his eyes; chest tight not only from the fabric constricting it—he’s a coward, yes, but even cowards have their limits, and his is at  _ this _ —but also from emotion; and emotion is thick in Newton’s voice, too, when he speaks. “It always was,” he says, “from the first time you decided it was. You signed those letters with your  _ name _ , Hermann, the only one that’s ever been yours, and we both know that.”

“I—” Hermann chokes out the sound, barely; and he’s shaking now; about to cry, he thinks.

“We can do it,” Newton says, and then adds: “if—if you  _ want _ , I mean. To, to change it. Legally. Lars doesn’t have any control over that anymore, Hermann, and if it makes you comfortable...”

Suddenly, it seizes him; the truth of it; and his grasps Newton’s forearms. “Would you go with me?” he asks, imploringly, “please, Newton, I—”  _ don’t know how, _ he means.  _ You’ve done this before. Help me, please _ .

Newton knows; understands; of course; and so he just gives a soft smile and pulls Hermann down a bit for a hug. “Of course,” he says, pressing a soft kiss to the corner of his lips, “of course I will, Hermann. Always.”

**Author's Note:**

> you can find me at [autisticharrow](https://autisticharrow.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


End file.
